


I Can't Get Any Lower

by cissyalice



Series: Winter In My Heart [1]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: And Then Some, Angst, F/F, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Post-Finale, Rough Sex, Tension, extreme tension, i'm not kidding there is angst here, just you know heavy petting, so spoilers, sort of, that about it, there's no actual sex, um
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-18
Updated: 2015-03-18
Packaged: 2018-03-18 10:48:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3566843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cissyalice/pseuds/cissyalice
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When she finds you after, the dust of war has long since settled, though the blood still clings to the skin of victory.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Can't Get Any Lower

**Author's Note:**

> I'm basically a wreck after the final so i thought let's write something to make yourself feel better. and all that came out was angst, angst and more angst. not exactly what i had in mind.  
> so, sorry about that.  
> This is from Lexa's P.O.V. because she's my baby and I really just wanted to get in there and see what she was thinking but i basically just upset myself.  
> I plan on this being part of a series and there being more one-shots that basically follow Clarke and Lexa after Season 2 (from Clarke and Lexa's P.O.V). But no promises. I have plans but I'm also a lazy ass procrastinator and you get the picture ;)  
> Anyway, I hope you enjoy?
> 
> Title of work taken from Vast's song 'Winter in My Heart'
> 
> Translations :  
> Az = Ice  
> Pas Warmplei = After Death  
> jus drain jus daun = Blood must have blood

 

  
_“You know, we warned you once, if a grounder ever picked up a gun we’d wipe you out. What made you think it would be any different if you waged war?”_

 

The choice is not a hard one. Not in the traditional sense. Weighing the pros and cons, determining the ins and outs of all possible consequences, does not take long. Logically, it is an easy choice to make.

  
And yet-

  
You bite out an answer, something that approaches a ‘yes’ to Cage’s demands, even as your hands clenches around the sword at your side, begging to swing. You want to cut Emerson in half, to drown the talking device in blood and march back to your army-to Clarke-and sound the war cry. You want to lay waste to the mountain that has haunted your people for too long. You want Clarke to join you in Polis, to see the height of your people’s civilization and the proof that they are not the savages the mountain men and her own believe. You want to show her the art your people have made over the decades, regale her with stories of the intricate history they each display, and in turn hear of her own people’s past. You want to take her to the Pas Warmplei, a festival held every spring, and watch her dance to the sound of drums and chanting. You want to lead her through the stalls that line the city’s main walk, point out the best places to trade for clothes and weapons, and have her taste the sweet honey cakes that are the specialty of the horse clan.

  
You want to show her that there is more to the ground than war and suffering. That you can create and not just destroy. That you can do more than simply survive.  
You want, you want, you want.

  
But you are the commander and your people need you. And want has always been a little afforded luxury. This cannot change just because a girl from the sky has chosen now to fall into your life.

  
And so the decision is easy.

  
And yet-

 

_“That wasn’t our only missile. True, you and your army will be safe, close as you are, but Tondc isn’t your only village. Just how much are you willing to sacrifice to win this war?”_

 

The decision is easy.

  
Carrying it out is not.

  
There is no question of whether or not you can do this.

  
You drove a sword through the heart of the only protector you’ve ever had and made peace with the nation that tortured and killed your first love. You do not doubt your ability to go through with the deal and leave Clarke and her people to whatever mercy the mountain men do not possess.

  
But it is not easy.

  
Every breath is a struggle as you approach, revolting at the pain in your chest. It does not ease as you stand before her and demolish the small tower of hope you have both built since forming this alliance. You apologize even as you sentence her people to death, knowing that no words could ever be enough to soften the blow, to excuse it.

  
As a leader you know what this failure-this loss-will mean to her. The destruction it will reap.

  
As someone who has only just started to trust again, you know the salt this betrayal will seed into her wounds.

  
_“Please don’t do this.”_

  
You know all this and still you take a breath-

  
your aching lungs expand, screaming at the pressure

  
-and turn away. Still, you walk away. Still, you leave her. Still, you do not turn back.

  
You have sacrificed everything for your people. Clarke can be no exception.

 

 

_“And that’s assuming you win. You’ve seen our weapons, you think you know what we’re capable of. You have no idea. No idea what we have waiting for you behind that door. But I do. Hundreds of your people dead, if you dare send them through.”_

 

_..._

  
When she finds you after, the dust of war has long since settled, though the blood still clings to the skin of victory. It has been nine moons-you have not been counting-and winter is just starting to loosen its taloned hold on the land. Snow still spots the earth and your people fight the cold beneath too many layers of skin and fur-grown clumsy and stiff at their own bulkiness-but you walked along the river two days ago and saw the ice had begun to thaw.

  
It is a long awaited relief.

  
Having just returned from a hunt, you are meandering around your tent and relaxing in the warmth of the fire, muscles loosening as it seeps through to your bones. You shuck off your coat-soaked wet from the snow and already beginning to freeze-and hang it up near the fire in your tent to dry. Your shirt and pants have not faired much better and you know you ought to change or else risk catching the _az_. The common ailment would be a laughable foe if not for the numerous deaths you have witnessed in the villages it sweeps through. The way some will simply fall asleep, never to awaken.

  
You hesitate a moment, fingers twitching at the hem of your top.

  
There is relief to be had in such a fate. Sometimes in bed at night, your spirit keens for it, or a similar form of mercy. More so these days.

  
You clench your jaw and yank your shirt off.

  
There is no honor to be had in such an end and you owe your people more than that. You also fear there is still much they need from you, that they will always need from you. It is your duty to fight death to the bitter end for them, not to welcome it into your tent. The mere thought puts shame on you and you throw the shirt aside, narrowly missing the fire.

  
There is a sharp exhale from behind you and you whip around, cursing yourself for falling victim to distraction. That you would not notice an intruder is yet another humiliating mark against you, not to mention an unacceptable risk. Your guards are there to keep out threats but you do not entertain for a minute that you are safe.

You are not a fool.

  
Your hand grasps the hilt of the sword still at your hip, even as you realize who it is your facing. The breath leaves you and, for an unguarded moment, you are too shocked to do anything but stare.

  
She has changed since you last saw her. A tan has started to work its way into her skin, even with this winter; a side effect of finally being allowed to see sunlight no doubt. Her hair is slightly shorter, but still pale and wispy. It frames her, making her look almost ethereal. But it has been a long time since she floated among the stars; the dirt on her skin and death in her eyes marks her as of your world.

  
All you know of what took place in Mount Weather after you left is what you have heard in whispers. Your people talk of her now. The girl who fell from the sky and brought down the mountain. The girl who defeated the enemy that plagued them for decades with no help and no army. They speak of her in awe and respect, but also fear. How can there not be? A person stronger than their greatest foe, a foe they themselves stood no chance against? What could such a being do to them if she ever wished it? Sometimes, when memory of your betrayal is at its heaviest, you fear the same.

  
Feared or not, she is a legend among them, a story for the ages. But you are less interested in the legend than the woman behind them, and what came after her triumph.

  
This is the kind of information you garner from Echo and your scouts. Echo who, for reasons you have no interest in determining, sought out Clarke’s Bellamy after the battle and has remained in contact with him ever since; and your scouts, who tail the activities of those from the Ark, including Clarke. You do this for the sake of your people, to ensure they are not in danger from the other half of an alliance you broke. And yet it is the details about Clarke that you rush to hear whenever they return, that hold your attention over what the chancellor has taken to doing now and how many of her people have wandered too close to your villages this month.

  
You know that the majority of the sky people now live inside the facility that has haunted your people for decades, using the resources left behind that seem invaluable to them. After a shaky start, they have now begun to prosper, or so Echo tells you.

  
You know that those of the sky that first fell to earth, the ones who suffered the most at the hands of the mountain, elected to stay behind in the remains of the fallen ark when the rest of their people moved on. The prospect of living within the walls of their prison was unthinkable and you cannot blame them. The mere thought of being confined inside the mountain makes you nauseous and you, unlike them, have never stepped foot inside.

  
You know that Clarke left her people the moment victory was assured. That she has wandered the ground aimlessly for moons, forming temporary camps here and there, living only off what the earth can provide. Occasionally, she returns to her people, reuniting with friends and family, taking supplies if thrust upon her, but she never stays. She seems content in her solitude.

These are the things you know but they tell you less than what you see in her eyes now.

  
“Clarke.” Your voice is toneless, with only the barest of inflections at the end, and for that you are grateful.

  
You are already at a disadvantage, caught unawares and confused as to the purpose of this intrusion. Even more pressing, the rise of goosebumps along your flesh alerts you to the fact that you are near bare from the waist up, the wrapping around your breast your only protection.

  
Your body tenses.

  
The Trigedakru have no concept of embarrassment or shame when it comes to the body. But you are the commander and bound by a different set of rules. Your people see you as more than human, a god trapped within a mortal cage, and this illusion cannot be broken. You must be seen coated in the blood of your enemies, but never to bleed yourself. You must be bigger than you are, encased in cloth and armor, concealing the vulnerable skin that lurks beneath, proof of a shared humanity. Only healers, in times of necessity, can be allowed to glimpse flesh, tender and exposed. Healers and those chosen especially by the heda, those deemed worthy of the honor and trusted not to exploit such a weakness.

  
To this end, only Costia has ever seen you in your entirety.

  
After her death, you resolved for such to always be the case.

  
Luckily, the spirits seem to have taken pity on you for once, as you did not fully disrobe before Clarke’s appearance. Though the reason for your relief is slightly different from what it would be if she was any other warrior. You do not fear that a lack of clothes will make you appear less in her eyes. She is not one of your people, she does not look to you to lead her, nor has she ever viewed you as a god. Before the mountain, you do not think she even viewed you as the commander, not entirely.

  
You would not like to be vulnerable in her presence, though. Especially now.

  
And you know that you have already shown yourself too many times to Clarke than is wise.

  
Admitting your care, _kissing her_ -

  
All mistakes that can never be excused.

  
And yet the haunting taste of her lips keeps you from regretting.

  
_Weakness._

  
“Your guard let me in,” Clarke announces after a pause, seeming quite shaken herself. She hardens her features, though, quicker than you remember her being able to. The result is even more believable than it once was. “I guess I’m still fairly well recognized around here.”

  
“My people have not forgotten _heda kom Skaikru_.” You take breath. Exhale. “Nor what she has sacrificed for them.”

  
Clarke’s lips curl sardonically at that. “Right. Sacrifice.”

  
You raise your chin. “I would apologize to you again, Clarke, if I thought it would mean anything to either of us. But I cannot take back my actions, nor do I want to.”

  
“Oh I know.” Her voice is hard, eyes cold even as she attempts at indifference. “I think I might hate you more if you did.”

  
It shouldn’t hurt. You have been hated by many in your time. Only, you had hoped that Clarke would never be among them. Even after the Mountain, you had hoped.

  
It seems even the commander is capable of foolish dreams.

  
No, not the commander. Lexa.

  
_The commander_ knows better.

  
You turn away, trusting her even as you scold yourself for doing so. It is the faith of the stupid to believe that one would not stab you in the back when given the chance, especially when you did not afford them the same courtesy.

  
And a commander cannot be stupid.

  
“You look well. How have your people fared in this winter? I’m sure the adjustment has not been easy.”

  
“We’ve managed.”

  
You know. You’ve already been informed.

  
Those in the mountain have remained relatively untouched, same as those who existed there all those years before. Food and water have not been an issue for them, parts of the facility operating as a supply system-you’re not sure how. It is those at Camp Jaha that were hit the hardest. It was impossible to survive there during the winter-not without the knowledge and supplies that have seen her people through the years-and so, after one too many cases of frostbite, they reluctantly joined the rest of their people.

  
When the first chill appeared in the air, you worried about Clarke. Winter was dangerous at the best of times but for one on their own, unprepared for what they were about to face it was near suicidal. You extended the watch time of your scouts, having them report back even more frequent. When the snow started to fall, you were battling with yourself over whether or not to seek Clarke out yourself, to demand that she seek shelter and the company of others. You would not see her die alone, from the elements, after all she has managed to accomplish.

  
You would not see her die at all.

  
Luckily, you did not have to.

  
Three days later, your scouts informed you she had moved into the mountain, shortly before the inhabitants of Camp Jaha.

  
“Of that I have no doubt.” You know that in Clarke’s hands, her people will always prevail. Your inquiry was merely perfunctory, an attempt to start conversation in lieu of anything better to say. There are few safe topics between you now. Most, in some way, trace back to your betrayal and the downfall of the Mountain. Both are uncomfortable topics that you are not sure you want to broach. The first for your own sake and the second for Clarke’s. You are not sure if she is ready to talk about what happened there, the things she did; and if she is, you doubt she would want to do so with you. That she would trust you with her thoughts and feelings on such a matter after what you did is laughable.

  
Back still turned, You retrieve a clean shirt from the folded pile in the corner of the tent, pleased to find it warm from resting near the fire. Mechanically, you pull it on over your head and shoulders before glancing at the table nearby. On it is a platter of cured meats and a kettle of water you boiled before going out to ensure it would not have turned to ice by the time of your return. You reach for it and pour a cup each.

  
Turning, you hand one to Clarke, battling down the the thrill of relief when she accepts. A simple act should not effect you so much, _she_ should not effect you _so much_. Time has gone by, you have grown strong again in her absence. You no longer need to fight an upturn of the lips in her presence, nor silence the beating of your heart the closer she gets.

  
Or so you thought.

  
Looking into her eyes now, feeling the familiar swoop in the cavity of your chest, you know you are as helpless now as you have ever been. Time has not changed you. Distance has not hardened you.

  
You sip at your cup, the water tasting bitter in your mouth.

  
“Why have you come, Clarke?” You ask when the silence has stretched too long. You want this over with, yet fear its start. You want her gone, yet need her to never leave.

  
It’s a dilemma.

  
But you are used to such conflict when it comes to Clarke.

  
“Bellamy wanted to visit Echo-she won’t come to the mountain for obvious reasons,” she answers, face seeming resolved to remain emotionless. It’s somewhat infuriating. “I didn’t think he should travel alone. Not in this weather.”

  
You find yourself disappointed that it was not you, after all, she came to see, that this wasn’t her reaching out to you after all this time, the beginnings of forgiveness even. You immediately scold yourself for the thought. Such hopes are dangerous and do nothing for you.

  
Nor do you deserve for them to be realized.

  
“You were right to think so,” you respond. “No grounder ventures alone into the cold. And the beasts are their most desperate and hungry during this time. Even traveling with two is a risk.” Your mouth thins, mind blistering with the images of the countless foul fates she has escaped by managing to reach you here. This visit might never have come to pass and the last time you saw Clarke would have been just that-the last. Your final goodbye the dagger of betrayal you slid between her ribs. “You’ll stay the night,” you decide. “Tomorrow, if you wish to leave, five of my men will escort you and Bellamy back to the mountain.”

  
And just like that, the facade drops, and a scowl cuts across her face. “I’m sorry but you don’t get to give me orders, _Commander_.”

  
You breathe in.

  
No, you don’t get to give her orders. You never have in the past, and if by chance you did she never listened. Clarke is your equal and therefore not yours to command, nor would you ever wish her to be.

  
But you can see her frozen stiff into the snow, her skin blue and fingers black, eyes glassy with death. You can see her carcass strewn across the ground, ice melting under patches of warm blood, her entrails carried away by the scavengers of the woods. You see yourself burying the memory of one more person lost, interring it so deep that it can only come out to haunt in nightmares, accompanied by the roll of Costia’s head.

  
But you can prevent that. You can keep Clarke from falling into the pit of your dead. If she’ll only let you.

  
“I do not wish to command you, Clarke, only to keep you and your Bellamy alive.”

  
Sparks fly in her eyes, the first hint of emotion. “Because you care so much about keeping me and mine alive?”

  
You hesitate. “Your anger is fair, Clarke. But you must know that my decision that day had nothing to do with you and your people and everything to do with mine.”

  
“Oh ‘I must’ must I?”

  
A sigh parts your lips. This is not going well at all. It seems you have lost your diplomatic edge, though around Clarke it was always a little frayed to begin with. You eye her for a moment, contemplating. You have thought many times about how you might explain yourself to Clarke if ever given the chance, how you might convince her of your reasoning and . . . not regret but guilt. The things you might tell her, though-of how her face has joined Costia’s in your nightmares; of the burn mark that is hers on your chest; of the way her absence now haunts the city walks of Polis; of your secret role in the furs and food Echo supplies to her people sometimes; how sometimes you think you might eventually have let yourself be weak for her if things had not ended as they did; and the anchor that dragged at your steps that night you walked away . . .

  
These are not things you can admit to anyone. Not even Clarke. Maybe especially not her.

  
Even with this shame that digs itself a home in your chest, you are still the commander, and there are limits to what you can give of yourself-something you have been called upon to demonstrate time and time again. It is also the only protection you have left.

  
Whatever words she might have for you, if she walks out and never returns, you still have the commander to keep you strong. You will watch her go and the spirit inside you will harden your heart and the duty to your people will prevail over loss. It has always been this way.

  
“No,” you say finally, softly. “You owe me nothing, Clarke. But I ask this of you anyway. Whatever you believe of my intentions, in this I am right, and you know it.”

  
Clarke’s gaze darts away and she bites down on her lip, no doubt fighting back another verbal attack. After a moment, she composes herself and turns back. “We were going to stay the night, anyway. Echo’s arranged something.”

  
You shift in your stance, feeling suddenly foolish,

  
And tired.

  
Of course, Echo would have thought of this. You do not know her feelings towards Clarke but her care for Bellamy has made itself well known since Mount Weather. When she talks of him, she seems almost to smile, and that is a rarity. What role he holds in her life, you do not know, nor do you care to, but you do know that she would not risk Bellamy’s life, and in conjunction Clarke’s life, to the cold.

  
You incline your head. “Of course.”

  
Clarke holds your gaze as she takes her first sip from the cup-you suppose you should be thankful she does not suspect it poisoned. The sky people have a term . . . ‘Small mercies’?

  
Perhaps it is a sign to take your chances. “I’m sorry, Clarke.”

  
“Don’t,” she bites out, staring down into her cup. There are some among your people who profess to have special powers, to see the future, heal the sick, create fire from nothing. You have not seen the proof of it but in this moment you almost expect the water to boil and steam to rise up above the rim, physical evidence of her rage.

  
And it is rage. For though she tries to keep her mask, she has not worn it as long as you, and you can see.

  
You once stood across from the queen of the Ice Nation and formed the coalition, pledging peace when all you hungered for was ruin. You wonder if you looked at her the way Clarke looks at you now.

  
Something falls inside your chest.

  
“Clarke, I-”

  
“I said. Don’t.” The cup flies through the air, hits the wall of the tent with a subdued thud. For the strength of the throw, you are glad you were not the aim. “Do you know how many people we lost in that mountain? Do you know what they did to them? To Raven? To my _mum_?” Clarke takes a step towards you and you command yourself to hold your ground. “But I suppose I shouldn’t expect you to care about that-they’re not _your_ people.” Another step. “So let’s talk about your people. The 250 we let burn in Tondc.” And another. “The 250 I let burn. And for what? To watch you and your army walk away while I stood outside that mountain and waited for my friends to die.” She takes a breath, “I killed _Finn_ -” and breaks off.

  
There is silence.

  
She’s so close now you can make out every detail of her face: the lines that were not there before; her sunken cheeks; the faint scar on her chin; the barren quality to her eyes and the harshness in her gaze.

  
She has changed.

  
Her voice comes again, weaker, strangled. “Do you even know what I did? To save them?”

  
Your hand clenches around your cup. “Clarke-”

  
“Shut up.”

She slams into you, drives you into the table.

You’re almost too shocked to feel the pain as the wood stabs into your back, hard.

  
Her mouth is on yours before you can react, the force crushing.

  
You flush at the noise that escapes you, at how startled it sounds, like a rabbit that has just been snapped up in the jaws of a pauna.

  
You try to pull back, disengage. It’s instinct. You are under attack and fight is not an option. Not with her.

  
But she pulses forward, though, swallowing your gasp. Her tongue-

  
Heat rises in your chest

  
-pushes past the barrier of your teeth and thrashes into contact with yours.

  
Her hands tug you forward, one at the back of your neck and the other claiming your backside.

  
You give up the hope of flight and instead surge forward to meet her attack, hands clasping her waist as you surrender to the kiss.

  
In all of your well-thought-out scenarios, this never entered in; you wouldn’t let it. The idea that you would ever feel Clarke’s lips on yours again was a fantasy and you gave up on those the day you surrendered Costia’s head to the fire. That Clarke would ever allow this, after what you did-

  
You hoped for understanding,

  
Forgiveness maybe,

  
A willingness to uphold the alliance,

  
Perhaps even strained friendship,

  
But this-

  
You break apart to catch a breath before reuniting once more, your hands kneading at the flesh of her waist. Your skin delights at the touch of her, the heat, and thirsts for more,

  
and yet-

  
If you had a fantasy, it would not be this.

  
This is harsh and degrading, and not at all what you imagined when you gave yourself permission to hope for a second kiss, back before the Mountain. Perhaps this is punishment then, for ever daring to hope in the first place.

  
Another break for air.

  
And then she claims you again, and you struggle to meet the burgeoning brutality of the kiss, even as a part of you shies away.

  
You would never let anyone handle you like this (you, _the commander_ ), would die before suffering the humiliation of being thus used. But this is _Clarke_. This is Clarke and with Clarke you deserve nothing. You owe her everything, and she owes you _nothing_.

  
And you do not regret what you did, nor would you ever seek to change it if given the chance, no matter how many times offered. You did your duty. You did right by your people.

  
But you did wrong by Clarke; just as you once did wrong by Costia, though this time you cannot plead ignorance of your treachery beforehand.  
And so you understand what she is doing.

  
You are Trigedakru and blood must have blood is the promise you’ve lived your entire life by. If this is Clarke come to collect, to take her pound of flesh, you will do nothing to stop her.

  
This much you owe her.

  
And Trigedakru always pay their debts, one way or another.

  
“I hate you,” comes in a hiss against your lips and you grunt as she bites at the flesh there, shoving you up onto the table. Your legs open for her as she presses forward into your heat and you can’t stop your hips from bucking in response-

  
It’s been a long time.

  
One of her hands leaves you for a moment but you hardly notice as your mouths continue to fight (you are losing). It reappears a moment later with a dagger that she’s kept concealed until this time.

  
This you notice.

  
You stiffen, breaking the kiss. For a moment, you wonder what you will do if this is to be Clarke’s retribution. Will you fight her?

Yes.

If only to save her from paying the price for taking the life of the commander. Your people will never let her live, and her death will be as long and as agonized as Costia’s.

You shiver, assessing the situation. She has you at a disadvantage but, of the two of you, you are the better trained. You are sure you can disarm her before she ever lays a blow and are preparing to do just that when she acts. The knife slices your shirt, splitting it up and open, destroying it. She could have easily tugged it over your head but you sense here that the point was ruin. 

You watch as she does the same to your pants, feeling like a distant spectre in the act, as she tugs the shreds down your legs. The last thing to go is the wrapping around your breasts. There’s the slice against your skin, a distant sting, and the fabric falls away- 

leaving you bare. 

There is a break as her eyes scan your body, her lips parting even as she tries to keep her expression neutral. You wonder if she realizes that she is only the second to see this much of you-and if she would care. 

You are under no illusion that this has anything to do with hearts and what feelings might be trapped within them. This is a battle-you have waged enough of them to know the difference-and, from your unequal states, she is winning. Though, to be fair, your fight is weak at best, non-existent at worst. 

Her eyes continue to take you in, giving no sign that she likes what she sees. You raise your chin and meet her stare head on, straining for defiance. Even now you are still the commander. You are still the woman who united 12 clans in peace and rescued her people from the mountain with hardly a casualty. You are still her.

You have to be.

 

_“Tell me, Commander. Have you ever heard the term mutually assured destruction.”_

 

Blood trickles down your side-

  
_jus drain jus daun_

  
-and something flickers in Clarke’s expression (shame?) but she shutters it away. “ _I hate you_ ,” it is little more than a whisper, an escaped breath, and you take in the determined set of her jaw-

  
_jus drain jus daun_

  
-and you have been cut by too many swords to count but you feel these words more keenly than any blade. You breathe in, force your gaze to remain steady, and shovel a hole down deep inside, a place to bury the feeling. It is not hard. You’ve spent just as much time mastering this skill as you have any of combat. Both are indispensable to your survival.

  
She reaches for you once more.

  
The rough material of her pants grates across the skin of your thighs and you close your eyes, command yourself to relax as your mouths meet once more.  
You have only ever been with Costia.

  
Costia who mapped the plains of your body with reverent hands long before it ever belonged to the commander. Costia who learned all parts of you when they were still entirely human, and did not shy away to see them change. Costia who called for the gentleness and love you were taught to strangle and treated it as the most precious gift you could have given her. Costia who accepted your heart and hid it away inside her, protecting it from the harsh reality of your reign.

  
The same heart you believed to have died with her,

  
or hoped it to have.

  
It makes itself known, though-

 

despite everything. 

Contracting when your hand wrapped around the lifeless braid of your mentor, stilling as you readied your sword at Gustus, and becoming an incessant throb inside your chest when you looked back and saw the smoke rising out of the ruins of Tondc. 

Around Clarke, it races. 

Even now, as her fingers bruise your skin and your teeth clash against one another, your pulse sets a maddening pace. It has been running rampant ever since she entered the tent, and you’ve since lost all control. 

The zipper of her jacket scrapes against your skin, reminding you that she is still fully dressed. You reach up to remedy this, to shed her of the jacket and hopefully some other garments too, but she swats your hands away without breaking from the kiss. 

You don’t protest. You understand. It would not do to have Clarke laid bare, made vulnerable in this like you. That’s not the point. That’s not what she’s here for.

You take a breath and kiss her back.

 

_“You underestimate my people. My warriors will fight to the last to destroy this mountain, and know their efforts will not be in vain.”_  
_“Yes, yes, very impressive, we’ll all go out in a blaze of glory. But what if you didn’t have to?”_

 

In the next moment, her hands find your hips and pull you closer. You can’t help but moan into her mouth at the added friction, stomach swooping as those hands move and squeeze. They burn a path from your backside to your thighs, venturing inward. The muscles inside you clench and you grip the table for support.

You want to hold onto her, to return her touch, but you don’t dare.

You don’t have that right. 

Not anymore. 

Maybe you never did.

She pulls away to nip at the skin of your neck, you shudder

-and then her fingers are between your thighs, drawing nearer to your entrance and-

You flinch. 

You can’t help it. 

You flinch and it’s the barest of movements but Clarke notices. She has always noticed when it comes to you. Even now, with all the destruction that lies between you, with her hurt and rage carving into your body and heart, she notices.

She stills, mouth pulling back, fingers growing stiff against the skin of your thigh. There is a moment when she meets your gaze

-you want to pull her into a kiss to distract but it’s too late, you want to look away but that would be weakness-

and she must see something there, in your eyes, because the anger fades, dies out. She blinks and pulls her bottom lip into her mouth, bites down. The hands on your legs shake and for once you can’t read her expression.

“I-” 

She stops herself. Blinks. 

“Clarke,” you try, your tongue clicking familiarly around the word, and you think that might be what does it, what breaks her.

Because in the next breath she’s collapsing against you, chest heaving with something other than rage and passion, and you can hear her-the choked sounds that escape her lips-pained, desperate-as she hides her head in the crook of your neck. There is wetness against your skin. 

Your mouth parts in shock and for a time all you can do is sit there, boneless and useless beneath her. 

You are not accustomed to giving comfort, nor can you remember the last time you received any. After Costia’s death, maybe? You think Anya might have tried once.

You’re not sure. You can’t-

Gustus’ hand on your shoulder, strong, steady, there-

Was that comfort? 

You know that Costia liked your arms around her when sadness hit, and that she would hold you close when a nightmare shook you from sleep. Your father wiped the tears from your cheeks once, drew you close and sang the songs of your people into your hair. Even more distant, a kiss to your forehead from a mother’s lips, to chase away the nighttime demons.

_Comfort._

This is what is needed of you. This is what you must give.

You have an image in your head of how to proceed but still the going is clumsy, filled with hesitation and second thoughts. You stop three times before really starting. 

Slowly, your arms come up and wrap around her trembling frame, waiting for her to pull away at the touch of you. She sniffs but doesn’t protest, only burrows closer. This, you take as consent, and, even more hesitantly, you tighten your hold. You bring her in to you until the zip of her jacket is pressed uncomfortably into your chest, near cutting skin, but you do not loosen your hold.

 

_“So what will it be, Commander?”_

 

You can give her this.

**Author's Note:**

> So um yeah. Clarke and Lexa aren't very good at talking about their issues. And Clarke has a habit for backing Lexa into tables when she gets angry.
> 
> Was that alright? Did you like it?  
> I was super nervous about that makeout scene because it's my first time writing one and I hope it didn't sound stupid...
> 
> I pulled inspiration from a response Kim Shumway had to why Lexa would have taken the deal with Cage for the conversation we see her having here with Emerson. The missile thing was my own thoughts though. I'm pretty sure I remember them mentioning they have more missiles and although these are useless against the army at such close range I could definitely see Cage using them for a threat. Lexa might be willing to sacrifice one village but two? You're losing more lives than saving there.
> 
> Stay tuned for more! Maybe. We'll see. 
> 
> Clearly, Lexa and Clarke have a lot to talk about. And they actually need to talk. Unfortunately kisses can't solve everything...


End file.
